Master of the Sickness
by IntraSule
Summary: There wasn't love; there wasn't lust. But whatever it was, it brought him to Rishid's room every night. Rated M for depiction of sexual abuse towards 14-year-old Rishid. Read at own risk; adults only!


This story depicts pedophilia and has a mention of homophobia, so I suggest that if you feel sensitive to these types of human degradation, you should leave and never return…

Yu Gi Oh isn't mine, so don't expect me to get rich off this story…

Master Ishtar placed the feather pen next to the scroll, rubbing the bridge of his nose in utter exhaustion. He didn't exactly know how long he has been at his stone desk, but judging by the silence and inactivity of his clan members and servants outside his study, he knew that he was up pass his bed time. He stood up and stretched, yawning a deep, tired yawn. He was sick of doing all of this- recording this, calculating that, storing and reorganizing and building more tombs for the dying and cribs for the newborns- but this was all for the coming Pharaoh, and since Master Ishtar was the leader, he had to keep the clan in good shape for his son's inheritance, even if it means taking care of that pathetic cur so Marik could have a decent servant in his future.

Ah, yes, that cur; that pathetic sand rat his wife picked up on one of her many nightly walks outside around the tombs' perimeters. Master Ishtar really regretted allowing his wife to walk outside the tombs, but she kept whining her nonsense about feeling trapped and suffocated within the stone walls, the whining that really killed his drive to copulate his wife and finally make a son; he regretted agreeing with his wife to keep the damn sand rat even more, something he did just so that she'd quiet herself and submit to his earthly needs; he really wanted a son. But letting his manhood make decisions instead of his mind had bore poor results for Master Ishtar. Sure, he had the son he always wanted, but at what costs? A dead wife, a useless daughter, and worse: that pathetic bastard that he can't get rid of.

It wasn't just about having him around to raise, protect, and serve Marik, it was something deeper, darker, sickening. It was something that awoke within him when that servant was five years old, a few days after Ishizu was born. It awoke within Master Ishtar when he looked down at those golden eyes, filled with the fact that the child knew his place in this clan, knew what to do and say to appease his master and when, yet still held that foolish unattainable hope that he'll receive fatherly love and become an actual Ishtar, an actual son of Master Ishtar, and won't be known as the outcast and be bullied by the Ishtar children for it ever again. It was looking at that then-heart shaped face-at those eyes- that set something unnerving in Master Ishtar.

He knew it wasn't love (that he was most definitely sure after years of enjoying beating the resilient tears out of the sand rat's eyes until he cried out, just so he'd understand his role in life as the Ishtar clan's personal pet), and it couldn't be lust because that would require wanting the bastard around to sate one's want with his mere presence (and he really wanted that sand rat out of his sight); whatever it was, it grew more as the boy aged, when that heart shaped face grew longer and more chiseled, his voice began deepening into a powerful yet subdued baritone, his shoulders widening to the athletic built, and those eyes narrowing into the perfect shape of a seductive harlot, the same eyes that said the boy knew and the boy wanted and the boy could in so many satisfying ways. But the boy doesn't want, can't; he doesn't even know because he wasn't there yet. He was still unaware of his physical condition; he could easily take and mount any one of the females that wandered about for his pleasure, could easily fight back the boys that couldn't even _dream _of reaching the cur's build, could easily fight back Master Ishtar's abuse and run away or kill him. But for the past five years- ever since Miss Ishtar's death- he chose to snivel pathetically in the darkest corner of his room, too afraid to speak out and take what he wanted, and too grateful to run away or defend himself. It was just too sickening, too humorously disgraceful, and Master Ishtar wanted it that way.

Leaving the study, Master Ishtar sauntered around the tombs' stone corridors, walking through the dimly-lit hallways and kitchen adn washroom until he reached that door. He crept in silently, leaving the door opened a crack to let in some torchlight and loomed over the low bed, where that sand rat was lying peacefully. He was on his stomach with his head turned away to give Master Ishtar a view of his isolated ponytail, and his shoulders were rising and falling in what appeared to be deep sleep.

Master Ishtar reached down towards his body, slowly pulling down the blanket to the boy's ankles and observing the body. He started with the shoulders, rubbing and gently squeezing them through the fabric and clenching the muscular biceps that cradled the shaven head. He slid his hand down the boy's spine slowly, noticing the subtle little shivers taking over. _So he's awake,_ Master Ishtar thought with a sneer; he really should've known that the boy was a light sleeper, the type who knew that this was coming for him every night ever since he was a young child and waited for it. Master Ishtar cackled quietly as he moved his hand over the firm budding buttocks, squeezing the thighs gently but firmly, being sure to bite his nails through the robe and into the flesh. The thigh quickly tensed up at the pain and relaxed quickly, but not quick enough to escape Master Ishtar's notice. Master Ishtar smirked; he caressed the calves until he reached the tattered hem of the cur's filthy robe, which he tugged up to the small of the servant's back.

Master Ishtar was a widower for so long, and even with his wife alive, he could've easily taken the bastard for himself, to mount him day in and day out, rape him until his almost-deep voice cried out in weak little squeaks with every thrust and yank of Master Ishtar's erection. No one would question his actions, would come to the servant's aid; hell, they would probably encourage Master Ishtar, the servant was despised so much. But to do so would mean that Master Ishtar would have to touch him more so than he already does; he would have to go inside that thing and touch and catch whatever animal disease that bastard must have been carrying. He would have to commit that heinous act against the gods, that sick homosexual act that defied the natural order of life since whatever sick little shit decided to invent it. Master Ishtar wasn't going to degrade his body to degrade the mutt.

He again brought his hand to the boy's back, running a wrinkled, calloused finger over the smooth skin, inside the concaved line of his spine. His eyes took in the now-noticeable shuddering of the boy's back, the boy's skin developing little bumps at the touch. When he reached the buttocks again, Master Ishtar took in the sight of the loincloth barely concealing the boy's genitals. They were growing large, and the fact gave Master Ishtar a quick, shameful quiver of…delight? He maneuvered his fingers through the folds, piercing a finger into the anus to get a pained whimper from the boy and caressing the testicles and letting them fall into his palm. That earned him a quiet little moan of distress from the cur. It was enough to encourage Master Ishtar to go further. He cupped his entire hand over the penis and testicles, giving a firm, cruel squeeze and tug.

"Ah!" The servant half-moaned, half-screamed, quickly getting up on his hands and knees and looking straight into his master's eyes with his own glistening, clouded orbs. He was panting, relieving himself with air after holding his breath for so long. His thighs clenched together with Master Ishtar's hand still clutching his penis.

The reaction was so appetizing, so alluring, so _encouraging _that Master Ishtar felt a hardening happening just below his pelvis. Fearful of the growing urge to simply copulate this boy here and now, Master Ishtar wrenched his hand from in-between the boy's thighs, turned him onto his back, and struck a blow across the boy's face, using every bit of that unnatural urge to deliver a slap that left both the boy's cheek and Master Ishtar's hand stinging. It was so relieving.

"Rishid! Go clean up my study," Master Ishtar snarled.

"Y-yes, Master," the boy stuttered, using every once of his strength to not rub his injured cheek and let tears fall from his eyes. He quickly got up and pulled down his robe, letting the loosened loincloth fall apart and slide down his legs onto the floor.

Wow, this was disturbing, even for me. I don't know why I wrote this on a whim; I guess I wanted to take the abusive, sad, unloving relationship between young Rishid and Master Ishtar and twist it up even more with sexual corruption (and to think, I call myself a Rishid fangirl and here I am hurting him even more. ;n;)

On that note: 1) I do not encourage pedophilia (heck, I was even debating whether or not to post this because I felt shame during the writing process) 2) I do not believe that pedophilia and homosexuality are linked in any way. (It's even been proven that more heterosexual adults molest children than homosexual adults, anyway) 3) Just because I'm Christian, doesn't mean that I share Master Ishtar's view of homosexuality.

So, reviews, please, so that I'd know that my imminent descent to hell won't be in vain?


End file.
